


Pure

by allumerlesoir



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, Purgatory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-11-16 08:15:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allumerlesoir/pseuds/allumerlesoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this place of fast winds and dark forests, he feels right. He feels like he belongs. He feels pure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pure

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collection of Purgatory ficlets, centering around Dean Winchester and his experiences.

**Pure**

He is running.

He clutches a knife tightly in his hand, poised and ready for attack.

The air, pure and cold, whips around his head, and he closes his eyes against the crisp wind. But he doesn’t stop running.

If he stops running, he will die.

He has to get to safety, wherever that is supposed to be in this territory. He has yet to find it, though he prays for it every night.

Finally, he finds a tree and ducks behind it, chest heaving. He is tired, he is sore, he is hungry, he is thirsty.

Yet here, in this place of fast winds and dark forests, he feels right.

He feels like he belongs.

He feels pure.


	2. Benny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters are in no particular order.

**Benny**

One day, he finds a man. Well, this man is not quite a man, but he is the closest thing he has seen yet in this place.

The man has fanged teeth and quick wit, and he finds that he likes him a little. This man understands.

The man’s name is Benny, and he says that he knows a way out. A way to break free. A way to go home.

But he doesn’t want to go home. Not really. Not yet.

He knows he won’t feel at home back above the ground.

This feels like home.


	3. Sleep

**Sleep**

He has found that he has forgotten how to sleep.

Every night, or when he believes it to be night (for the sky is always dark and the wolves always howl), he tries to find a place where he can hide for an hour or two. He secures his knife in his jacket and lies down, bending his body into itself to preserve any semblance of warmth.

He closes his eyes.

He folds his hands into a steeple, childlike, and opens his mouth. He prays, and no one comes.

The wind whispers promises to him, but he never held much trust in the wind.

He sighs and curls his hands into fists.

He tries to sleep.

But he is kept awake by the wind and the wolves and the unanswered prayers and the darkness.


	4. Home

**Home**

He has been to many places.  
He has seen Earth, in all its hope and recklessness.  
He has seen Heaven, in all its glory and frayed edges.  
He has seen Hell, in all its torture and dark corridors.  
And now, he is here, in this place in-between, in all its wind and moonlight.  
And somehow, here doesn’t feel nearly as wrong as the other three places.  
Here feels right.  
Here feels home.


	5. Fear

**Fear**

He knows that he should be afraid.  
All of the creatures that he hunts live here – the werewolves, the ghosts, the vampires, the beasts, the monsters, the things without names.  
Right now, he should be shaking. He should be scared, chest heaving and heart racing.  
He should be screaming, crying. He should be afraid.  
But he isn’t afraid.  
They are afraid. 


	6. Memory

**Memory**

He remembers one time when he and Sam were on a break from hunting. Every now and then, they sleep in the same place for more than three nights and get to explore some little town.   
Sam was exhausted, so he went out for a walk by himself.  
He saw people – women with crying children, men with their wives, teenagers with surly attitudes. It was no different than any other town that they had visited.  
As he wandered down the sidewalk, he noticed a man with thinning grey hair and tired eyes sitting against the wall of a building. He had wrinkled hands and creased clothes.  
“Hello,” the man said. “Could you please help me out?”  
He leaned down, hands on his thighs. “What d’you need?”  
“A dollar, sir, just a dollar,” the man said.  
He dug around in his wallet for a buck, but all he had were credit cards and hotel room keys. He shook his head, standing up and burying his hands in his jacket pockets.   
“Please, sir, anything,” the man said.  
So he shot him, bullet hitting flesh, blood running rivulets on the sidewalk, children screaming, men startling, and teenagers running.  
And now that he thinks about it, perhaps he is remembering wrong. He cannot recall shooting a homeless man. He cannot recall that town. He cannot recall Sam.  
Memories are distant here.  
All that matters is the present.  
All that matters is the running. 


	7. Angel

**Angel**

Sometimes he thinks about a man who is not a man at all.  
Sure, he resembles a man. He has blood and bones and flesh. He has sad blue eyes and short black hair.  
He also has light in him, now tainted with some darkness that spoiled it all, that spoiled their friendship, that spoiled the Earth.  
He wonders where that man-who-is-not-a-man is now.  
He prays to him every night.  
But he hasn’t come yet.


	8. Leaving

**Leaving**

Sometimes the hand holding his knife shakes and he wonders if he could escape by ending himself, by ending his life.

The air is too pure here, the wind is too fast, but it feels right. It feels the way it should.

So he stills his shaking hand and slides the knife into his pocket and nods his head. He straightens his spine and looks to the sky.

And maybe everything will be right again someday.


End file.
